I Think, Therefore I Am
by DellaVie
Summary: Professor Minerva McGonagall was quite right in her description of what had occurred in the office of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and her statement of what she saw was an entirely accurate summation of events. What she didn't see was what happened after. Something involving a dementor, a woman, a watch and a promise. HP4/DW3x08
1. Prologue

This story is mine, all mine. The characters and locales may not be, though.

* * *

I Think, Therefore I Am

_"The moment that - that thing entered the room, it swooped down on Crouch and - and..."_

Professor Minerva McGonagall was quite right in her description of what had occurred in the office of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and her statement of what she saw was an entirely accurate summation of events. What she _didn't _see was what happened after. Something involving a dementor, a woman, a watch and a promise.

* * *

Prologue

It wasn't a conscious decision, the brief hesitation before she opened the door. She wasn't afraid of the man on the other side, or the news she had come to deliver. Nor did she care much for the politics involved (her current appointment to Head of Magical Law Enforcement had been at the disgrace of the man she was about to see). Were she the type to ruminate on her actions, she might come to the conclusion that the seconds pause was in sympathy for a life lost, nothing more. Amelia Bones wasn't a woman who fell into tales of woe, nor did she have any particular opinion on the victim, but a life lost was a life lost. Some could call the circumstances tragic, others might see it as justice; Amelia just saw a life that had been unnecessarily cut short. And someone had to deliver the news.

She turned the knob and entered the office.

Perfectly parted grey hair bent over a stack of parchment. Only when he noticed her presence did his frame straighten and his quill pause. He placed the feather swiftly back into the ink bottle and Amelia noted the slightest downturn of his shoulders. Their departments had little reason to communicate, and for Amelia to appear personally could only mean one thing.

"Madam Bones, I take it you've come to speak about my son?" He deduced.

"Yes Bartemius, I'm sorry."

She didn't need to say the word, it was already understood. There was only one real thing to report from Azkaban (with the exception of an escape, which was very unlikely. How Sirius Black had managed it still remained a mystery).

Bartemius Crouch cast his eyes towards a picture on his desk. "When was this?"

"Last night. Azkaban reports that the dementors say that he is no longer suffering." She generally wasn't one to mince words, but that was the exact phrasing she had received in her report.

"I see. Well, I must inform my wife, I can't imagine she'll receive this well." He stood. "If you'll excuse me."

"Of course."

Amelia had made it just outside the door when a wiry lad in oversized robes burst into the office, an equally pale boy with red hair right behind him. "Mr Crouch is in a meeting at the moment, I must insist-"

The puffing blond ignored him, his attention split between Amelia and gulping down air, "Madam Bones."

"Deakin? What is the meaning of this?"

"It's alright Weatherby," Crouch interjected, forestalling any comments from the redhead who was still trying to remove Deakin from the room.

Weatherby - or Percy as he's more accurately known - looked at his boss, and then Madam Bones. "Very well, I shall wait outside." Considering the door was open and Amelia Bones was already outside, Percy took this to mean back at his desk by the department entrance. His departure went unnoticed.

"I trust this is important," Amelia prompted Deakin, who held up one hand to stall, and the other to his chest. It was quite possible Deakin had never run so much in his life.

"Yes Ma'am. It's about Crouch."

"Yes, I have already informed his next of kin, as you can clearly see." The impatience in her voice spoke volumes on social cues and etiquette, all of which Deakin was oblivious to.

"No ma'am, I mean he's not dead."

"What?" Echoed across the room, and Deakin finally realised where he was.

His eyes bugged as he noticed Bartemius Crouch standing behind his desk. "Err..."

"What do you mean, he isn't dead?" Amelia pressed.

Deakins' eyes seemed to pull his gaze back to Amelia. "They were transferring him out of his cell, and he suddenly woke up."

"One does not simply 'wake up' from death," Crouch said.

"The dementors must have made a mistake," Amelia surmised.

"No ma'am, that's the thing. They're adamant he was dead. And now..." He trailed off.

"Now what? Spit it out, Deakin." Amelia ordered.

"Now they won't go near him, ma'am," Deakin finished.

The silence following that statement was almost tangible. Quick to act, Amelia was the first to speak. "I apologise for any undue concern I may have caused you, Bartemius. Rest assured I will be getting to the bottom of this."

"Amelia, if I may-"

"I'm afraid I must insist," She cut him off, "at least until we understand the situation."

When he looked ready to protest, she added, "I'll make sure our top Auror to sorts this out, and I will keep you informed of the outcome."

With little else to say, Crouch simply nodded.

Madam Bones nodded in return, before quickly sweeping from the room. Deakin quietly followed.

Crouch stood there as the door shut, his mind awhirl. When he eventually sat down, he picked up his quill and a fresh sheet of parchment, though work was currently far from his mind.

.-.-.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Rufus Scrimgeour, I am the Head of the Auror Office for the Ministry of Magic."

Barely visible under the sparse light Rufus' wand emitted, the man's mouth formed a small 'o'. "And who am I?"

Rufus turned to the warden, whose name was Phillip. Phillip G. Anthiel. He was short, grey-templed and balding with a lean - almost gaunt - figure. He was the last in a long line of short, balding Anthiels whose physical appearance stemmed from their long-serving position as caretaker of Azkaban. Before that, the Anthiel family had owned an athenaeum. With his square, half-rimmed frames it was easy to picture Phillip delivering stern glares to anyone who dared raise their voice above a whisper as he lectured on the intricacies of magical theorem.

It was this very quality about him that made his opinion worth hearing to the likes of Rufus Scrimgeour.

"It is not a trick," Phillip spoke in a smooth, measured tone. "Since awakening, he seems to have no recollection of where he is or even who he is. Or anything at all pertaining to people, places or culture. I have personally checked for evidence of a memory charm."

"And?" Rufus nudged.

"Nothing. He genuinely does not know a thing."

"But I can hear."

They both turned to the man in the cell. He had his hands in tucked in his pockets and an innocent look on his face.

"He must be lying then." Rufus declared. "Veritaserum shall settle this."

"Veritaserum can be fooled," Phillip countered, "and I don't believe he is lying."

Rufus turned his attention to Phillip and waited for an explanation.

Phillip did not disappoint. "The dementors had announced him deceased. Whether it is true or not remains to be seen. However, since that point they refuse to be in his presence - not out of fear, it seems, but rather... disinterest. It's as though he has nothing they want. And we all know what they want..."

The gears in Rufus' head began to spin. "They feed on happiness..."

"And were he a true amnesiac, he would have no memories for them to feast upon. An empty shell, as it were." Phillip finished.

"You speak as thought his memories are gone, not repressed. There is no magic that can do that."

"That you know of."

Rufus and Phillip faced their captive, who spread his arms wide.

"Still here." He smiled. "And still can hear. Did you just say 'veritaserum'? That's Latin, isn't it? Latin..." He tasted the word on his tongue. "Latin. Lat-in. Lat-IN. And Dementors, you said?" He frowned. "Fitting, I suppose. They're not a lively lot, are they? Bit of a downer at parties, I imagine."

"You remember." Though it was a question, Rufus posed it more like an accusation.

"Not really," he replied. "Though it does seem sort of... familiar. Latin, latin..." He chewed the word over. "Veritaserum and Dementors... Can anyone else taste that? It's sort of," His tongue darted out as though he were tasting the air, "I don't know. Well, I _do_ know," he corrected, "I just can't... remember." His tongue flicked out again.

Rufus stepped closer to the cell. "Who are you?"

"I don't know."

"How did you do this?"

"I don't know."

"What did you do?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" He looked down at his outstretched arms with a frown.

Rufus tried another track. "So you admit this is your doing."

"No, I admit that I don't know. Pay attention Rufus. Honestly I'm disappointed. Phillip here is using that tiny brain of his to some surprisingly astute results, and the best you can do is hope to trick me into a lie? That doesn't say much about the Auror Office of the Ministry of Magic, does it?"

"Well what _do_ you know?" Rufus was quickly growing annoyed.

With a smirk his prisoner slowly slinked up to the bars. "I'll tell you what I don't know, _Rufus Scrimgeour_, my name. So I'll make you a deal; you tell me my name and I'll tell you what I know." He flexed his eyebrows, smiling in the knowledge that he would get exactly what he wanted.

When Rufus could see no measurable loss at parting with the information, he replied. "Your name is Bartemius Crouch."

"Bartemius Crouch." He tested it out.

"Junior."

"Junior? Does that mean there is a Bartemius Crouch Senior someplace?"

Rufus smiled. "My turn. Tell me what you know."

"Oh, that," He shrugged." I know you can't wrap your hand around your elbow and make your fingers meet."

Rufus stared at Barty Crouch with a look that sent most people scurrying. The only effect it had on Barty was to incite mimicry, right down to the muscle twitch in the jaw.

"Keep him locked up," Rufus instructed Phillip, though his eyes focused on Barty. "No one is to have any contact with him. If you notice anything else - anything - I want you to inform me immediately."

Barty merely raised an eyebrow, and Rufus turned and left.

His palpable anger quickened his stride, and Phillip scurried to keep up. "There is one thing."

Rufus halted so suddenly that Phillips' glasses slipped down his nose when he stopped to avoid running into him.

He pushed the frame back up his nose and continued. "His clothes."

"What about his clothes?"

"Well, they're not his clothes."

"Phillip..." Rufus may have stopped walking but his patience was still making its way out the door, thanks to a certain convicted criminal.

"He's too clean," Phillip explained. "No one thinks to send clothes in for the prisoners - most of them are still in the clothes they were convicted in. But Master Crouch, his are new. Clean even."

Rufus thought back to the man in the cell. Pressed and clean and perfectly fitting his frame. With no wand to create or alter, they surely had to come from someone. "Who gave them to him?"

"That's the thing, no one knows. When the dementors brought him back to his cell, he had them on."

The next words sprung out of Rufus' mouth before he had time to think on them, "Are you sure it's the same person?"

Phillip's reply was simple, "Who else could he be?"

* * *

**AN:** For those who may be interested, this story takes place in the same universe as another fic I'm writing ("_Twenty Years Apart_"). However if you're not a fan of Supernatural don't worry, this story will stand alone (pending a possible cameo).


	2. Chapter One

I Think, Therefore I Am

_"...Don't worry about the Tardis; I'll put it on emergency powers so they can't detect it. Just let it hide away..."_

* * *

Chapter One

Martha could only watch as The Doctor screamed in pain. She had to believe this was the right thing to do, that this would all work out okay. But then the Family had gone and fired off a shot into the Tardis that rocked her off her feet and sent a massive surge through the controls. Sparks flew as circuits overloaded, and switches flipped and shifted in what Martha hoped was a safety precaution but feared was something else.

Amid the violent lurches and jolts she managed to climb to her feet. Using the railing as a lifeline, she stumbled over to The Doctor. He was staring at the wall with unseeing eyes; his body had somehow maintained a standing position, and his arms and legs were splayed as though he were on display. The Chameleon Arch was still on, emitting a bright light that rapidly flashed across The Doctors' eyes which he absorbed without a blink.

Before she could reach out a hand to touch him, the Tardis gave one final twist and died in a brilliant display of sparks. The Chameleon Arch also shut off, and The Doctor stood there for a moment unmoving, before slowly teetering forward face-first onto the floor.

"Doctor!" Martha cried, and rushed to his aid. Pulse - check. Strong vitals - check. No visible physical damage - _well, it's likely he's going to have a bruise on his forehead from his meeting with the floor -_ but somehow Martha suspected that brain damage or memory loss wouldn't be as easy to diagnose, given what had transpired prior to the fall. His one heart was beating out a steady pace, and from everything else Martha could discern he was 100% human.

Assured that she had done all she could medically, she set about fulfilling the Doctor's request. She crossed the floor to the exit, and opened the doors;

A dungeon. They'd landed in a dungeon. And not just any dungeon, but on the wrong side of a cell as well. The walls were covered in grime, mould and what else Martha could only guess at. A small window was cut into the stone and barred to prevent escape. Martha rushed to it and peered outside.

Though the vantage point wasn't large, she could easily make out the waves of the ocean that seemed to surround them. A prison, then. _A prison on a cliff? Perhaps a prison on an island? Alcatraz? Did we land in Alcatraz? Why would The Doctor send us to Alcatraz? Surely he wouldn't want to spend the next three months as a prisoner...Something has gone wrong. _Martha turned around and crossed to the cell door.

"Hello?" She called out. She was met with silence. "Hello?" She tried again, "Is there anyone out there?"

Silence. She was both relieved and worried by the lack of response. True, it was reassuring to know that there wasn't anyone rushing (possibly armed) to the cell to question their presence (and boy did she not know how to try and explain _that_), it also meant that they had no way of getting out of said cell.

_Martha Jones, you're an idiot._

Rolling her eyes at her own stupidity, she ducked back inside the Tardis and searched The Doctors' pockets for the sonic screwdriver. _Aha!_ Returning to the door, she tentatively held out her hand and closed her eyes. A short burst of high-pitched whirring and the telltale _clack_ of a lock shifting meant Martha Jones had just escaped from a prison cell. She pocketed the screwdriver and pulled the door to the cell inwards. Its age and rust meant she had to use both hands and one or two forceful nudges before she had it open far enough to escape.

That done, she re-entered the Tardis and assessed the sprawled mess that was The Doctor. "I sure hope you know what you're doing, because I'm not getting tortured for you." While a small voice at the back of her heard wryly questioned that statement, the rest of her body bent down to loop her arms under his shoulders. Once secured, she proceeded to drag The Doctor out of the Tardis, stopping only when she had backed into a wall.

Martha frowned. No, that was much too soon to be a wall. Before she could turn around she heard a slow, rattling breath and with it, felt inexplicably cold. Her fear of being confronted by whatever was currently standing behind her was quickly succeeded by a sense of helplessness, like the world was shrinking around her.

Her grip on The Doctor sagged as she stumbled to the side. Her arm reached out to the bars for support... only they weren't bars anymore. It was a wall. A small, enclosed wall that Martha had to crouch to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling. _Oh God_. She was back in that escape pod, heading towards the sun.

She fell to the ground, her arms cradling her legs. _The Doctor will save me._

But how can he, when he's unconscious?

_No, he will. He did._ Martha frowned. _He_ _**did...**_

He can't help anyone, lest of all you...

An image of The Doctor appeared before her, sprawled across the ground.

_No, that's not what happened – he rescued me._ "That's not real," She whispered at the body before her.

But it was. Somewhere, deep down, Martha knew it to be true. Tentatively she reached over and touched his still form. Real. "But it can't be..."

Again, more images flashed in her mind; the Tardis under attack, the Doctor running, a watch, pain, screams, so very loud – silence. A cell, a prison – The Doctor unconscious.

_But that means..._ She looked around the escape pod. "This isn't real." Slowly she began to stand. "This isn't real!"

With the truth of her words, the escape pod disappeared and Martha found herself back in the cell, standing before a black-cloaked creature that put her in mind of a dementor.

_Wait a minute, prison, dementor – I'm.._. "...Going mad." Martha reached up to check her head. She'd checked The Doctor for concussion, but not herself. All that tossing and turning the Tardis had done had thrown her about quite a lot, how was she sure she wasn't still unconscious herself? This could all be a dream – she could still be lying in the Tardis while the Family—

"Stop it!" She turned to the dementor. "Look, I don't know what you are, but seeing as you're acting like a dementor I'm going to call you one." She stood her ground. "You're all about fear, right? Sucking out happiness to leave doubt and helplessness? Well I've got news for you - I'm not afraid of you."

The dementor didn't move, but Martha felt a slight change in the atmosphere, as though its effect had lessened. "That's right. I've seen things you can't imagine – terrifying and horrible things – but you know what? I'm not afraid. Because I've got him." She pointed to the man currently lying on the ground between them. In the pale lighting he almost seemed to glow. "And as long as he's alive, I know I'll be okay. Because he's more clever and fantastic and, God, wonderful than any darkness you can conjure up."

It was as though Martha had breathed life into him with those words. The Doctor slowly rose from the ground, staring the dementor down in that way Martha had seen him do to the Judoon, Carrionites and even the Daleks. The dementor shrank from his gaze, before gliding out of the cell.

Martha looked at The Doctor, who was almost ethereal in the moonlight. She smiled, "Talk about timing, huh?"

He turned around to smile, and in a blink was gone. In his place was the again unconscious form lying on the ground.

Unsure of what just happened, Martha filed it away for later and instead focused on the problem at hand. She had an unconscious Doctor lying at her feet, and she was stuck in some sort of prison where there were dementors and—_Azbakan_, her mind supplied. "You've _got_ to be kidding me!" She cast her eyes around the room anew. "Azkaban isn't even _real_! It just... can't be."

Unable to argue with what was very much in front of her, Martha threw her hands up in defeat. "That's it, I've gone mental. That's all there is to it." Completely at a loss, she looked around for something to do. All that she could come up with was closing the Tardis door, because crazy or not – real or not – leaving the Tardis open was a big no-no.

Giving one last check to make sure that a) there was nothing she could do to fix the Tardis, b) the Chameleon Arch was well and truly broken (which only cemented her 'something has gone horribly wrong' hypothesis), and c) she hadn't left anything behind – _thank you, psychic paper_.

With her hands already full, she pocketed the screwdriver in favour of her jacket and made her way out. As she passed the control panel she noticed something she hadn't before. It was her name, written on a post-it and stuck to the monitor. She changed direction and went to investigate.

One switch and the monitor came to life. The Doctor appeared before her, tapping the screen. _"Is this working? Martha, before I change here's a list of instructions for when I'm human..."_

Martha idly wondered when he had time to do this, as it seemed 'go go go' from the moment they escaped from the Family back into the Tardis, but she let the thought slide as she listened attentively while he laid out all twenty-three of his instructions, even the one about pears and the one that started off being about advancing technology and ended up digressing into a band called the House Martins, of all things. When the message ended with the final warning to open the watch if things went wrong, Martha immediately hurried over to the Arch and pried it loose.

It was cold to the touch and, aside from the circular writing that the Doctor had informed her was Gallifreyan, was no more remarkable than an ordinary fob watch. Driven by curiosity, her fingers unconsciously moved towards the release when his voice stopped her, _once its opened, then the Family will be able to find me._ Now, there were a lot of unknowns in this situation, but what she was sure of was that signalling the very people they were trying to hide from was not going to improve things.

She slipped the watch into her pocket and exited the Tardis. Plan or no plan, she had to get The Doctor and herself out of here before those dementors – or worse, someone else – returned. If she took a little longer than normal pulling the door closed behind her, it was because she was trying and failing to come up with some kind of plan to escape a prison designed to hold in wizards, of all people. Martha racked her brain for what she knew of the books, as they were all she had to go on. Sirius escaped because they didn't register his animagus as human... That won't work; The Doctor had just changed his whole biological makeup... Maybe it didn't take? _But he only has one heartbeat.._.

Martha's internal dialogue came to an abrupt halt when she realised that the person in question was no longer lying on the ground where she had left him.

In fact, he was nowhere to be seen at all.

_Calm down Martha, he can't have gotten far._ While her rationale did little to soothe her nerves, it did prompt her into action.

Martha locked the Tardis and slipped the key under her shirt. She then pocketed the psychic paper and fob watch before crossing the cell to the door. The moonlight from the window only went so far, and Martha was left facing a dark unknown. The silence that grew in her hesitation chilled her into putting her jacket on. The Tardis had landed in an unused wing of Azkaban, which suggested that it was less likely to be stumbled upon by, well, anyone. But the lack of noise also meant that she had no way of knowing any of the dimensions of the prison outside her cell. _Just because the dementors are blind doesn't mean the rest of us have to be, _Martha grumbled, and then stopped short. _If you can complain, then you can do this._

"I can." She took a breath, and then placed one hand on the nearest wall. Slowly Martha made her way down the hall; one foot swept in front of the other, barely off the ground but never touching until she was committed. She closed her eyes, concentrating on any slight wisp of noise that might flutter her way. To someone watching she would have struck quite the contrast; the cautious and rhythmic movements of a skater, gliding her way across an aged stone that was too mottled and crooked to see such beauty dancing on its surface. At least until she hit the wall.

The jolt of contact woke all her nerves at once, and faced with the unknown she had reverted to the same panicked fumbling in the dark that all people have been known to do at one time or another. Haphazardly her arms ran up and down the coarse walls, one hand always connected like a lifeline. Her feet that seconds ago held such grace now inched tentatively forward, almost afraid of hitting something else. In what seemed like metres - but in reality was only a few feet - one of her legs gave way and she scrambled for purchase on the wall to keep her balance.

A step. She had found a step.

With the knowledge that most stairs are usually supported on both sides, Martha spread her arms wide until she made contact with the other wall. The soft _clack _of her boots seemed to bellow outward in front of her, almost curving to the left. She stopped and tapped her heel, listening for the echo. _To the left... spiral staircase_. She used her new perspective to slowly make her way down the stairs. In an effort to occupy her mind, she congratulated her logic and application to the situation. Though not in those words; _Martha Jones, you own the darkness._

Martha could tell by the change in the air that she had reached the end of the flight. She opened her eyes and, after a few blinks, could make out the faint pools of moonlight from the row of cells. Reassured, she started edging over to where she presumed the next flight would be and prepared her descent. And paused.

Because the tap-tapping wasn't coming from her shoes.

Her muscles tensed up as she listened to the noise. It was coming down the hall behind her, ten yards or so if she had to guess. And there was something else... A moan? No, not a moan, but definitely vocal. It was as though someone was trying to speak, but they hadn't the intelligence to form whole words. _Or the motivation._ Someone was in pain, a great deal of pain and Martha had spun around and moved towards them before she had even realised what she was doing.

_It's a prisoner. You're in Azkaban. They deserve it._ Another feeble groan drifted out of the cell and Martha stopped. Criminals or not, they were still people. And no person deserved this. But what could she do? She couldn't set them free, and she couldn't ease their pain. The only way she'd managed to fight off the last dementor was because of the Doctor-

_The Doctor!_ What if it was him? Part of her mind said no, but the other part hinted that there was no way to be sure. Martha squared her shoulders and took a step forward. She had to know.

She followed the arrhythmic tapping to its source, and peered into the cell. The noise was coming from the bars, a sort of metallic resonance that was too soft to be from two metals colliding, and too sharp to be from a hand. But not a fingernail. Glancing down, Martha saw a form sprawled on the ground, one arm reaching out to percuss the bars.

Martha squatted down. "Doctor," she whispered, "Doctor!"

The tapping stopped. The fingers looked almost skeletal in the moonlight as they curled around the bar. Slowly the figure pulled itself up against the metal and though Martha couldn't see their face, she could already tell it wasn't the Doctor. The hair was too long and the silhouette wasn't the right shape.

"Who's there?" The voice was weathered and raspy, but unmistakably female.

Martha froze in the shadows, hoping she wouldn't be seen.

The head languidly moved from side to side, and Martha held her breath. After a scope of the area it seemed to settle directly on her.

"Alice?" She hissed. "Is that you, _Alisss_?"

Martha thought now would be as good a time as any to retreat. It's not like the woman could stop her or send up the alarm - one more scream in Azkaban wouldn't make a difference. And besides, she was getting creeped out. Quiet as she could, Martha started to backtrack on her hands while the woman continued to ramble;

"Why are you here, _Al-ice_? Come for an apology?" The woman laughed at that, halfway between a giggle and a cackle that ended abruptly. "I'm sorry, _Alice_, I'm so so _sorr-ee_." Her voice dropped an octave with the last word, and Martha felt a chill run down her spine.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to your little boy." She pulled herself up off the floor, her gaunt face peering through the bars. "But you know what, _Alice_? I will. When my Dark Lord returns I'll get that little boy of yours and then – I'll have the whole set!"

Her cackle went off like a screech, and Martha gave up all pretence at stealth and ran for the staircase. She skidded to a halt when the glimpses of moonlight ran out, and fumbled her way to the stairs. Slipping on the first few steps, Martha landed on her backside on the fifth and stopped to catch her breath. Though it seemed far away, Martha could still make out the cold voice taunting her with unrepentant glee, "_Alice,_ where are you going? Surely you want to..."

Martha didn't hear the rest of the sentence because it was swallowed by a terrifying, rattling breath. Martha knew enough about the situation to know what that was, and what had just become of the woman in the cell. She also knew that she wasn't going to be safe sitting on the stairs without the Doctor or some mystical patronus that liked to flit carelessly across the world, helping out medical students in pinches. Seeing as neither were likely to appear in the next few seconds, Martha gathered her legs and navigated the stairs as fast as she could in the dark.

She bounded down flight after flight, not even pausing to check each floor. As she neared what she thought to be the bottom, she noticed a faint glow of light that grew brighter and brighter before finally spilling out into a candlelit corridor. The dim flickering from the sconces was more than enough light for Martha and she took it as a sign of safety, doubling over to catch her breath. With her heart pounding in her chest, and her mind awhirl, she hardly noticed the two men that rounded the corner and spotted her. In fact, she didn't even register their presence until they were standing a few feet from her with their wands drawn.

Martha cast her eyes on the small pieces of wood inches from her face and immediately part of her mind that she liked to call The Doctor's Bad Influence informed her that this was _brilliant!_, before her eyes followed along the wands to the two rather burly men holding them. The one on the right was definitely the bigger to the two, with dark features and eyes that suggested he was just as dangerous as the bear he resembled. The man to his left was a little shorter, though still large enough to probably bench-press her with one hand. He had the same black robes as his companion, and the same battle-worn face, though his was marked with a scar that ran from his jaw to his ear. His eyes were a stormy grey that matched his hair, and the serious gaze on his face was an indication that he was also not to be messed with.

He was the one that spoke. "Who are you?"

Martha straightened up and raised her hands in surrender. "Martha Jones."

He paused, and Martha wondered whether it was because he wasn't expecting a reply, or because he was re-assessing the situation. As he took in her appearance, he seemed to make a decision, lowering his wand. His companion didn't waver though. "What are you doing here, Martha Jones?"

She cast a glance at the other wizard who hadn't moved from the position she had first seen him in. "I..." What could she say? The truth wasn't even a factor, and without it she had no explanation as to her presence in Azkaban. And while a lie seemed the only option, she was having trouble thinking up something that would be good enough for two seasoned guards at a wizarding prison.

She realised she had yet to answer. She also knew that if she didn't say something soon, they would. And she didn't think she'd like to hear whatever they had to say. "My pocket." She stammered out, and tried to look as non-threatening as possible while the one closest reached over and searched her.

He didn't give the fob watch a second glance, casting it aside in favour of the sonic screwdriver. He turned it over, puzzled by its purpose.

Before he could ask, Martha distracted him, "My other pocket." She pointed.

The man frowned at the screwdriver, reluctantly putting it in the same hand as the fob watch in order to check her other pocket.

The Doctor had explained how the psychic paper worked to Martha once. He mentioned that you had to clear your mind and that sometimes, like with Shakespeare, it didn't work. He also launched into a story about the paper picking up residual psychic messages and a story about bananas, but all that knowledge went out the window as the man pulled it out of her pocket and flipped it open. _Let it work, let it work..._

He stared at it for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. "You are a Healer." He said, not taking his eyes off the paper.

"Yes, that's – I am." Martha nodded.

"Specialising in mental trauma," The man continued. "It says here you're conducting research into a possible treatment for the effects of the cruciatus curse."

If that's what the paper said, Martha wasn't going to argue with it. "Yes."

The man showed the paper to his friend, who glanced at it, then at Martha. He didn't lower his wand. Marthas' hopes of that happening plummeted with the first man spoke again;

"Except you're not. This paper says your field is muggle medicine."

Martha opened her mouth in an aborted attempt to explain away the discrepancy. "Yes. Muggle medicine was the basis behind the research."

The man was not swayed. "And it also says you are still in training."

_Crap!_ "Well, yeah, they don't send the head researchers on the unsavoury tasks, do they?"

He wasn't buying it. "This paper has been bewitched."

Martha felt her arms and legs pulled together as though she had been covered in rope, and belatedly realised that the taller of the two had placed her in a full body bind. _Which is not in any way comfortable. I feel like I'm going to topple over._

Martha's predicament was of little concern to the two men who were now focusing on the psychic paper. The shorter pocketed the screwdriver and watch in favour of his wand, which he tapped on the paper. "Reveal."

He frowned, and turned the blank paper to Martha. "Explain this."

How exactly was she supposed to do that when her entire body felt like it rolled in a rug? She couldn't even say as much, as her mouth wasn't co-operating. _Not so brilliant now, is it?_

The other man finally spoke, and his low growl only cemented her earlier description of him. "_Priori_." He tapped the paper, and they both looked on in interest.

"A Healer, an engineer, a journalist..." He read out the identities that Martha had used on her travels with the Doctor. "...and Miss Martha Jones, companion to Sir Doctor of Tardis. Well, it seems you are a varied individual, Miss _Jones_." His tone indicated he doubted that was her actual name. "I think you best come with us."

He flipped the wallet shut and pocketed it along with the rest of the Doctors' belongings. He started down the corridor and Martha felt herself being pushing along after him, presumably by the other wizard who had taken up the rear.

They followed along in silence, and Martha used the time to compile a list of all her problems and contemplate possible solutions. It was not looking good.

She wished The Doctor were here.


End file.
